


10 Times Kat Tried Fluff Bingo +1 Time Lily Yelled at Her for the Result

by Sanctuaria



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Also Vic’s glasses are basically a character in this fic wtf am I doing, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, BioStaticQuake, Conventions, Cosplay, Coulson just wants to know who won Nevada, Coulson’s head explodes, Daisy tries to explain Superwholock while reveling in the chaos, FitzHunter - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff Bingo, Hurt/Comfort, Jemma is angry Doctor Who gets bundled in with them, John Garrett Getting Punched in the Face, Lincoln is just showing her memes, MayRobinPolly, Multi, Philinda - Freeform, Reindeer Murder, Scis & Spies, cursed date Nov 5 2020, mama may, philindaisy, skimmons - Freeform, unrelated prompts, we are all Coulson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanctuaria/pseuds/Sanctuaria
Summary: Collection of AoS Ficlets for @AgentsofChallenges Fluff Bingo on Tumblr!1."Blanket Fort" (dekesy)2."Cute Notes" (vicizzy)3."Holding Hands" (mackelena)4."Daisy Explains Superwholock" (biostaticquake)5."Waking Up Together" (plat!mayrobin)6."Coffee Shop AU (skimmons + fitzhunter)7."Stargazing" (fs fam)8."Captain America Convention" (philinda)9."Baking Cookies" (scis & spies)10."Forehead Kisses (mayrobinpolly)
Relationships: Alphonso "Mack" Mackenzie/Yo Yo Rodriguez, Deke Shaw/Skye | Daisy Johnson, Jemma Simmons/Lincoln Campbell/Skye | Daisy Johnson, Jemma Simmons/Skye | Daisy Johnson, Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons, Leo Fitz/Lance Hunter, Leo Fitz/Lance Hunter/Bobbi Morse/Jemma Simmons, Phil Coulson/Melinda May, Robin Hinton & Melinda May, Victoria Hand/Isabelle Hartley
Comments: 191
Kudos: 145
Collections: Agents of Fluff 2020





	1. Blanket Fort (dekesy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fandom wife made me. (I still say the angst version of this would have been better, Lily.)

Daisy thumped her hand against the giant couch cushion propped up on its side amidst a swath of blankets.

“Who is it?” a voice called from inside.

“Daisy.”

There was a loud rustling sound before the cushion was shifted to the side, Deke’s head poking out, spiky brown hair mussed and gray eyes bright. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Daisy replied, fighting to keep the smile off her face. “Nice blanket fort.”

“Thank you,” Deke said. “Alya taught me last time we were in Perthshire.”

“I see,” Daisy nodded, as if that was a reasonably explanation for a grown man to be making a blanket fort out of the lounge on a random Tuesday at three o’clock in the afternoon. “So you’d thought you’d get some practice in for next time?”

“Well, you know, density of the pillows and frictional qualities of the blankets have to be assessed, structural integrity and all that...”

“So this has nothing to do with the fact that May’s currently on the warpath for whoever ate the last of her matcha Pocky sticks.”

Deke blinked at her innocently. “What’s matcha?”

“You can’t possibly think that a few blankets and pillows will provide you enough protection from May,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes. “Plus, you’re doing it wrong.” She placed a hand on his chest, then knocked him backwards into the pile of pillows behind him with an _oof_. Daisy crawled in after him, tucking the cushion-door back into place behind her. “Blanket forts are meant to be shared.”

“And here you are.”

She poked him in the side, careful not to knock over any of the blanket walls with her feet as she shifted. “Yeah, so scoot over; this thing is tiny.”

“Part of my master plan all along,” Deke teased, shimmying to the side and then pulling her down with him, his arm looped around her middle.

“If you wanted to cuddle, you could have just asked,” Daisy replied, deadpan.

“Not that, that’s just a perk,” Deke said, grinning at her. “Master plan against May: get the big bad Quake in here to protect me.”

“Big bad—oh my god, never say that again,” Daisy said, but she was laughing. She propped herself up, leaning over to kiss him. “But yes, I will protect you from May’s wrath. This time. You really gotta stop eating her food—“

“Well, I didn’t know it was hers!”

“A likely story, lemon boy,” Daisy huffed, then nearly knocked her head into the top of the fort and brought it all down around them as she laid back down. She let out a happy sigh, head against his shoulder as they both gazed contentedly up at the fluffy blue blanket that made up their ceiling, held up by a mixture of safety pins and chip clips. “Hey, Deke...”

“Yeah?”

“You know that storage closet down on level twenty-one with the temporary supplies, there’s like a hundred extra pillows down there and at least as many blankets…”

“Mack wouldn’t be too mad, as long as we kept it to the non-operations parts of the base…”

They looked at each other. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated <3


	2. Cute Notes (vicizzy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria keeps receiving cute notes at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, anything that’s not _angst_ is fluff, right? Asking for a friend.
> 
> CW for implied workplace sexual harassment (very brief, very implied, no it’s not the notes, yes Kat cannot do fluff, _bite me_ ).

The first note was innocuous. A small slip of bright blue paper fluttering out of her binder as she strode down the hallway, knee deep in logistical details for the op commencing in half an hour that she was spearheading from Control. She bent down to pick it up, shoving her glasses back into their proper place on the bridge of her nose before slicing it open with one perfectly manicured fingernail and unfolding it.

_Nice blazer. Tell me, do you own any clothes that aren’t red, black, or white?_

Victoria closed her binder on it immediately, trapping it between the heavily-classified pages. Then she went to run her op.

* * *

The second note was larger than the first, the foreign feeling of paper in her coat pocket when she thrust her hand in to retrieve her gloves some four days later, ready to brave the chill of New York winter outside the Hub. At first she thought it was her annotated document from the briefing earlier, or perhaps the addendum Hill had wanted attached to the mission report filed for the Montenegro op, but that was ridiculous—those were both filed away in the cabinet in her office, where they belonged. She pulled it out, the edge of the paper catching slightly on the wool of her black overcoat. It was red this time, red like her hair, the handwriting familiar.

_Sitwell looked like he was about to wet himself; kudos on replicating May’s murder strut into the conference room._

Victoria smiled to herself, then dropped the note into the shredder on the way out.

* * *

The third note appeared on her desk two days after Thanksgiving, an overly patriotic and frankly rooted-in-racist-origins holiday Victoria had worked right through to let the other agents with families have a little off-time. If she had been the type of believe in such things, she would have said the universe was feeling a little sorry for them after the Halloween Fiasco of 2007 and postponed any of its planned alien invasions until after the rest of the holidays, but Victoria instead chalked it up to constant vigilance and the fact that Fury’s cat hadn’t seemed to have any hairballs recently. (No, Victoria didn’t believe in the powers of the universe but she did believe in the predictive analyses able to be built on the activities of her boss’s cat. Even she couldn’t brush aside actual _evidence_ , and the fact remained that Goose had predicted three coups d’etat, one potential terrorist attack in eastern Bangladesh, and six verified UFO sightings, and those were just the ones they knew about.)

Victoria opened the note, then slid her desk chair slightly backward to examine her feet.

_Those heels could punch through a man’s carotid, and I think that’s hot._

Yes, yes, they could. She resolved to wear them again tomorrow.

* * *

The fourth note was pasted to the top of her briefing memo for the Melbourne op, the burst of bright yellow hitting her as she turned the page she was reading in front of a room of other Level Sixes. Victoria, of course, did not skip a beat, peeling it off and setting it aside even as she carried on smoothly informing the group about the status of the continued negotiations with the Australian parliament.

“Got a secret admirer, there, Vic?” Garrett asked her once the meeting had ended in a flurry of people getting up from their chairs, but she had already whisked the note away into the pocket of her slacks.

“No,” she replied evenly, tucking her file folder under one arm and affixing him with a cold stare. Victoria pushed her black-framed glasses back upwards, closing her briefcase with a _snap_. “Don’t you have work to be doing, Agent Garrett?”

_It’s cute the way you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose._

* * *

The fifth came on a remarkable Wednesday, remarkable not for any reason of note except that it was the first American-cuisine Wednesday Barton hadn’t managed to start a food fight in the cafeteria with particularly well-aimed mashed potato slinging. And if Victoria _had_ specifically requested him for the 0-8-4 retrieval in Lucerne that day, well, no one needed to know that it was less about his and Romanoff’s specific skillsets than her desire to be able to grab her burger and fries from the cafeteria in peace for once.

Regardless, the note was delivered by a scared-looking junior analyst that Victoria pegged as six months out of the Academy, walking up to her office door and jumping slightly at her “Come in!” before he had even knocked. The note was a bright, lurid pink.

_I would knife someone for you, no questions asked._

Victoria sighed. Well. No wonder the boy looked terrified.

* * *

The sixth note was not so much a note at all, but found its way into her digital calendar with a small notification ping.

_Dinner, 6pm._

“You can’t keep sending me these,” Victoria told Izzy at precisely 7:34 that night, sitting at the granite countertop in her apartment. Izzy did the dishes, Victoria kept the two wine glasses between them filled; that was their arrangement. “It’s unprofessional.” She slid the note from two days before across the counter towards her with a singularly unimpressed look on her face. “Especially using junior agents to pass along your very sweet offers to take up contract-killing on my behalf. The boy was terrified.”

“He owed me one,” Izzy shrugged, drying her hands on the towel hung next to the sink. “Saved his life when he was embedded with us in Peru.” She quirked an eyebrow at Victoria. “I’d ask you if you wanna see the scar that particular encounter left, but it’s in a rather intimate place. Wouldn’t want to be viewed as _unprofessional_.”

Victoria nodded seriously, eyes sweeping across the six pairs of women’s shoes in two different sizes by the front door, the impressive Peruvian knife collection hanging on one wall, the picture of Jane Hartley with her arm around her sister on the mantle. “This _is_ strictly a work relationship.”

“Oh, of course,” Izzy agreed, coming around the counter and pulling Victoria off her stool. “Happy one year anniversary to this work relationship, then.” She leaned in to kiss her, one hand burying itself in the red highlights of her hair, Victoria’s falling to her waist and pulling her closer.

“You do have to stop sending the notes,” she told her when they finally pulled apart, pushing her glasses back up off her nose from where they’d fallen askew.

“Then I’ll just have to tell you all those nice and vaguely murderous things to your face.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “As if I’ve ever been able to stop you.”

* * *

The S.H.I.E.L.D. Annual New Year’s Eve party was in full swing in the atrium of the Hub, flashing lights and loud music and the alcohol flowing a little too freely when one considered most of these agents would be responsible for homeland (and home _world_ ) security come the morning. Senior agents mingled and junior agents tried to network or at least not make a fool of themselves; Victoria was fairly certain she’d caught a glimpse at least once of Fury’s signature trench coat making the rounds that evening. Supposedly even some World Security Council dignitaries were in attendance, thus the three reminder emails from Hill for everyone to be on their best behavior. She held a mostly-full glass of champagne in one hand, less for the tradition aspect—or the free booze on the WSC’s dime, though that was definitely a perk—than the fact that she had it on good authority (Izzy) that Bobbi had brought Hunter to the party tonight, and the likelihood of _that_ not ending in utter catastrophe, well…

“No, thank you…no, really, I’m fine…” Brow furrowing, Victoria turned to look, spotting one of the junior intel analysts in conversation with Garrett near the hors d’oeuvres table. Her interrogator’s training wasn’t even needed to tell that something was wrong as she approached, the young woman’s hand holding white-knuckled to her champagne flute, legs crossed, eyes casting around for help and a polite smile plastered on her face in front of a field agent five levels her superior. Anger flooded Victoria, anger that Garrett would pull something like this, anger that his little crowd of buddy-buddies around him didn’t seem to have a problem with it either, anger that she was at work and the Council was in attendance and she’d have to take care of this _smoothly_ and _professionally_ and _with decorum_ when he so obviously had none—

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Napkin,” Maria said, eyes also where Victoria was looking.

“What? I don’t need—”

“Napkin,” Maria said, thrusting it at her. Victoria took it, turning it over to find a familiar writing in black Sharpie on the other side. _Punch John Garrett in the face._

You know what? _Gladly_.

“Hold my champagne,” she said to Maria, handing it off before stalking in Garrett’s direction.

“Oh, Vic,” he said, smiling broadly as she approached. “I was just telling Ainsley here that she—”

“She said no,” Victoria told him coldly. Then she punched him in the eye, the crack of her knuckles across his cheekbone as he staggered backward.

Garrett swore, pressing his fingers to his face and peering at her through them, large mouth gaping. “You’re kind of a hardass, Vic, you know that?”

“Don’t call me Vic,” she answered before striding away. “It’s condescending.”

She’d barely taken two steps—Maria taking care of talking to Ainsley behind her, Maria had always been better at that sort of thing—before Bobbi appeared at her shoulder. “Nice punch. Here.” She handed Victoria another note. “Why are you two communicating through cocktail napkins?”

“Thank you, and long story,” Victoria replied, taking it. “Where’s Hunter?”

“Having a contest with Clint to see who can fit more mini quiches in their mouth at once,” Bobbi answered. Victoria raised an eyebrow, and the blonde shrugged. “Natasha’s moderating and on-hand to perform the heimlich if needed.”

“I see.” Victoria unfolded the napkin, her lips quirking upward into a begrudging smirk at their contents.

_See? Sometimes professionalism is overrated._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, it's today, everyone. If you're American and eligible to vote and haven't yet, _get the fuck out and vote_. Preferably all the way down the ballot, and preferably not for the Orange Cheeto. Thank you. 
> 
> Everyone else...when's too early to start drinking? Again, asking for a friend :)


	3. Holding Hands (mackelena)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mack and Elena have a quiet moment post-finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be more hurt/comfort than fluff, but hey, I'm still counting it :P
> 
> Mild spoilers for season 7.

They won.

The Chronicoms were defeated, the timeline restored.

They won.

FitzSimmons were off settling in in Perthshire, Piper introducing Flint to Mario Kart in the lounge, May and Coulson sharing a bottle of Haig up on the actual Lighthouse, and Daisy and Sousa sneaking out together in a way that made Elena really, _really_ owe Mack that twenty bucks now.

They won, and now they were alone, for the first time in what seemed like ages. Decades, really. _Finally_.

“Mack,” she said, reaching out for him as if she were not already cushioned into his side, two beers on the table in front of them. His hands closed around hers, lighting up nerve endings she’d never thought she’d have again with sensation—nerve endings she’d made peace with never having again. But she could feel the warmth of him now, even if these hands are synthetic. She could feel the ridges of his palms, life and love lines and everything in between. She could feel the roughness of the callouses on his fingers scraping gently against her own, marks of a man who liked working with his hands and whose happiest place would always be under the hood of a car, not with a gun—or a shotgun axe—in his hands.

She knew these hands intimately, and they knew her, and to feel them again—

Elena’s gaze lifted to meet Mack’s, finding an impossible softness in the depths of his eyes as he watched her. He understood. Of course he did, his heart had been one of the first things that attracted her to him, his heart and his capacity for love.

“Can I…?” she asked, and his hands fell away as she reached for his face. Her first touch was hesitant, barely a brush of fingertips against the black hairs along his jaw. All it took was that tender spark of sensation before she was swinging her legs across the couch, planting a knee on either side of his with her calves tucked beneath her and settling onto his lap, her thumbs stroking over his cheeks. He let her, hands settling gently on her waist as he gazed at her with quiet adoration. Her fingers explored the shape of his nose, the ridge of his eyebrows, the smoothness of his forehead, how could she ever have forgotten how this felt—

“Mack,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I can feel. I can feel you.”

“Take your time,” he replied, the rich bass cracking slightly on the last syllable.

She did, running her hands along his jaw, his lips, the small hollows under his eyes. He glowed with warmth to her fingertips as she remapped his face with her touch, memorizing every line and curve. She’d never thought to commit them to memory, before, but she did now, etching this intimate knowledge of him into her brain, her heart. “Does it feel the same?” Elena asked. “Do I—”

“No,” Mack said, reaching up gently to cover her hands with his own, palms still pressed to his cheeks. “But it feels like you, Yo-Yo.”

His hands dwarfed hers as she slowly released his face. Like everything about him, they were large, steady, filling her soul with warmth and light. “Mack,” she said, because she loved this man. “I never want to let go.”

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly, squeezing her hands with his own. He bent his head, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m right here. We’re both right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated <3


	4. Daisy Explains Superwholock (biostaticquake)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy tries to explain Superwholock, Jemma is angry Doctor Who gets bundled in with _them_ , Lincoln is showing her memes, and Coulson just wants to know who won Nevada.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went in my ‘what fun thing can I do for a polyship free space’ from ‘climbing the Statue of Liberty aka Bad Girl Shenanigans’ to this. No, I have never seen Supernatural but I wrote this in a feverish haze on the night of November 5th, 2020 and _ohmygodiamsosorry_. 
> 
> Special thanks to Abby for answering my dumb SPN questions tho :))

“Oh my god,” Daisy said, her feet pounding against the stone floor of the base, taking her toward the lounge even as her gaze remained locked on the screen of her laptop in her arms. “Oh my GOD, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“What?” Coulson asked, his voice tense. “Wait, AP hasn’t called Nevada yet—”

She glanced up, making a beeline for the couch where Jemma and Lincoln were already sitting. The large TV mounted to the wall blazed in red, white, and blue colors, Anderson Cooper’s face talking on mute filled the screen. “No no no, not the election,” Daisy waved him off. “It’s—it’s _destiel._ It’s canon. _”_ She looked at Lincoln, who was engrossed in his own laptop, Jemma curled up close to him. “You’re seeing this, right?”

“Oh, I’m seeing it,” he replied flashing her a grin. Daisy plopped down in between the two of them, forcing Jemma over slightly, and her girlfriend gave her a pouty look before dropping her pink-monkey-socked feet into Daisy’s lap.

“It’s…what?” Coulson asked, confused.

“The Supernatural fandom is _blowing up_ , oh my god,” Daisy chortled, fingers swiping across the trackpad as she scrolled. “I cannot _believe_ this day, _remember, remember the 5_ _th_ _of November_ indeed, except it’ll just be _destiel_ —”

“Daisy, look,” Lincoln nudged her, turning his laptop toward her.

She immediately started giggling, causing Lincoln to break into full-blown uncontrollable laughter beside her. Coulson looked on in confusion and mild indignation. “And this is…more important than the U.S. election?”

At the word _election_ , Daisy burst into another fit of laughter, and even Jemma was coaxed into a grudging smile. “Okay—” Daisy tried once she had some mastery over herself again, practically gulping for air, “—okay, no, I’m not saying that, but Nevada seems to have taken a nap and it’s already 11:30 so are we even expecting anything more out of Georgia at this point?” Coulson opened his mouth to argue—perhaps give her a lecture about _civic responsibility_ or _the importance of taking back the Senate_ , as if Daisy hadn’t spent the last month and a half text-banking every chance she got between missions—just as she scrolled one more post down. Daisy snorted, then turned her laptop toward him in triumph. “Even Captain America is tweeting about it. Suck that, bigots, we got Steve Rogers.”

“Cap has always been against bigotry of all kinds,” Coulson said proudly before he could stop himself. He then exchanged a bewildered glance at May, as if looking for backup. Finding none in her usual I’m-not-wading-into-this-nonsense-expression, he sighed. “…Okay, explain to me what _destiel_ is.”

Daisy looked at Lincoln, mouth twitching. “Okay, so I have to start from the beginning. So there’s this website called Tumblr—”

“Like, the dating app?” Coulson cut in, suddenly alarmed. His eyes shifted between Jemma and Lincoln on either side of her.

“No, that’s _Tinder_ ,” Daisy explained. “ _Whole_ other mess. We’re talking about _Tumblr_ , it’s this thing, you have blogs, there’s lots of fandoms and gay people on there—” Beside her, Lincoln snorted. “Anyways, like eight years ago Tumblr was _filled_ with Supernatural fans. They were everywhere. And people in that fandom were often in the Doctor Who and Sherlock fandoms too, so there was this term Superwholock—”

“I still hate that we Doctor Who fans get lumped in with that lot,” Jemma sniffed. “Doctor Who is nothing like that load of—”

“Aww,” Daisy said, smiling at her girlfriend’s grumpy expression. “C’mere.” She pulled her toward her, giving her a kiss and then letting her burrow into her side, freeing Daisy’s arm to return to her keyboard. Lincoln reached across her and patted Jemma on the head, receiving a pleased growl for his efforts. “Anyways, Supernatural got more and more trash as the years went by ‘cause the height of it was back in—” She looked at Lincoln, ignoring the way Coulson’s eye was twitching. “2012?”

“2012,” he confirmed. “I was doing my residency at the time.” Lincoln shuddered. “Those were dark days.”

Daisy grinned. “Yeah, 2012. So the fandom’s faded a bit since then, but Supernatural or Superwholock still gives the old people like us on Tumblr war flashbacks—it’s basically a giant meme or inside joke now.” She winked at Lincoln. “I like your shoelaces, by the way.”

“I stole them from the president,” he responded immediately, and Daisy leaned over to kiss him as well.

“He’s not even wearing shoes!” Coulson spluttered. “And wait, you _what_?! That’s a national incident—how did you even get into the White House—please tell me you didn’t use your powers against the Secret Service—”

“Don’t worry about it, _Dad_ ,” Daisy teased, waving him off. “So, are you with us so far?”

“…Yes,” he grumbled. “Wait, no. What’s a _fandom_?”

“Are you part of a group of Captain America aficionados on some online forum, where you share facts and pictures and memorabilia about the poor guy?” Daisy asked shrewdly.

Coulson cast a worried glance at May, updated election results flashing behind him on the screen— _wow, now eighty-_ nine _percent counted in Nevada, one percentage point in the last_ twenty _hours!_ “…No.”

“That’s a fandom,” Daisy told him, smirking. “But anyways, on to what happened tonight—so the two main guys on this show—wait, are they the two main guys?”

“No idea,” Lincoln shook his head. Daisy looked down to consult Jemma who was still cuddled into her side. She mumbled something about besmirching the name of Doctor Who, so Daisy assumed she had no clue either.

“Okay, two of the main guys have been shipped by this fandom _for fucking ever_ —”

“Language,” May said calmly, taking a sip of her tea.

“No, May, I need it to properly explain the amount of _fervor_ this fandom had for these two random white dudes—”

“Daisy.”

“Fine,” she huffed, turning back to Coulson. “Please don’t tell me I have to explain ‘shipping’ to you.”

“No, I lived through your Clexa phase,” he reminded her. “Go on.”

Daisy cringed, forcibly resisting the words _Lexa deserved better_ , then launched into the next part of her explanation, eager to blow right past _that_. “Basically since the beginning, like, seasons ago. And it's been queer baiting all the way. But now, _ten years later_ , the ship, destiel has been made canon.” She paused. “Do you know what canon means?”

“Yeah, I went to a couple years of Catholic school.”

Daisy made a face. “Okay, sure. So, in true CW show fashion, they replaced queer baiting with ‘bury your gays’ in .1 seconds as Castiel confessed his love for…Dean?” Lincoln shrugged; Jemma nodded against her side. “—moments before he died and was dragged to hell. And they’re all losing. their. shit.” She was back to grinning now, scrolling through Tumblr basically as fast as her trackpad could take her. “And it is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Coulson just looked dumbfounded, alarmed, and frankly a little terrified. “Lincoln…?” he asked, as if her normally level-headed boyfriend could shed some light on Daisy’s current insanity. Face nearly buried in Daisy’s soft sweater, she supposed Jemma didn’t look fit to be bothered.

“Daisy,” Lincoln said instead, eyes bulging with excitement as he turned his laptop toward her so fast it almost flew off his lap.“Another meme, look at this one!”

She burst into laughter again, sides shaking, Lincoln losing it right along with her. “ _Ray—raybans_ ,” she choked out, barely able to breathe. “ _Twenty-four ninety-nine_ …”

Coulson looked at May, the unspoken _HELP!_ clear in his eyes. “Mel, do you get it?”

“Sorry, guys, you’re just too old,” Daisy said, still chortling. Her eyes fell to the next text post on her feed. “Oh look, we just won Georgia.”

“WHAT?” Coulson demanded, turning his head back to the TV so quickly that Daisy was amazed he didn’t get whiplash. He snatched up the remote from the table, starting to flip through channels. “How do you—how do you know?”

Daisy showed it to Lincoln, who laughed out loud before looking vaguely impressed. “And by 203 ballots, too…”

“Thank fucking god,” May said, setting down her mug to wrestle the remote away from an increasingly manic Coulson.

“How is ‘Tumble’ faster than CNN?!” Coulson exclaimed just as she pulled it out of his hands. Words in thick black letters scrolled across the bottom of the screen, now tuned to MSNBC. _GEORGIA WON BY LESS THAN .1 POINT MARGIN - AP RACE CALL - JOE BIDEN WILL BE THE 46_ _TH_ _PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES_

There was a moment of shocked, elated silence—a breath of relief let out by everyone in the room. Then:

“I can’t believe I learned we ousted the Orange Cheeto through a SPN meme,” May said.

Jemma’s head shot upward from where she had been laying against Daisy; likewise she and Lincoln stared at May, frozen over the tops of their laptop screens.

“Did you just say…did you just say _SPN_?” Daisy asked. May just carried her mug to the sink, rinsing it calmly. “MAY,” Daisy demanded, rocketing upward. Jemma caught her laptop just before it hit the ground, but she couldn’t bring herself to care, not when—not when— “MAY, WHAT DO YOU KNOW— _MAY_ —”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this we won Georgia…kudos to charge, comments to cast? Jkjk, but I am just gonna…knock on wood here…
> 
> *tap tap*


	5. Waking Up Together (mayrobin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin wakes up in the Lighthouse, and she is not alone (s5 alt timeline).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this is just “bingo” now and I admit it…
> 
> *cowers and waits for Lily to start yelling at me*

That night she dreamed of happiness. Of a great plume of pearly smoke, shooting up into the sky. Of people, sitting with their legs dangling, bottles in their hands and smiles on their faces. She recognized a few of them, people she knew from this life, or a life before, or another life entirely. The young woman with the long hair whose phone screen flashed as it twisted in the light, the two others whose voices and faces were so familiar.

She recognized her mother standing behind them, the slight upturn of her lips as she gazed at that young woman. The same way she looked at Robin when she was happy, when she was proud. The same face she woke up to in the—

Robin looked around, taking in the gray walls and the desk in the corner cluttered with papers, the off-white color of her thin blankets, and waited for the word to come to her. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t.

The—

The Lighthouse.

She twisted to push some of the blankets off of her before realizing May was still in the bed with her, eyes closed and breathing slow.

_“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.”_

“Mom,” Robin whispered, touching her shoulder lightly. Her mother started when she woke sometimes and Robin knew that occasionally she saw things in her sleep too. That was okay, though—Robin could always bring her out of it, just like her mother did for her. “Mom, you’re still here.”

May stirred, blinking drowsily at Robin. “Guess I fell asleep right here with you.”

“Told you you work too hard,” Robin said, smiling. “Or—or did I tell you?”

“Yes, you told me,” May replied, tickling her stomach. Robin burst helplessly into giggles, squirming away from her. “Yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that…”

“M-mom s-s-stop!” Robin shrieked, her laughter echoing around the room, making the four gray walls seem brighter and less constrictive. The room spun around her and then it was a different set of hands tickling her, brown hair cropped at the shoulders and eyes creased with laugh lines, a different mother from a different time, but was that before or after, and what was _now_ versus _then_ —

“Robin?” May’s voice called her back, making everything settle into place again. “You with me?”

“Yes,” Robin said, and she set those questions of when and before and after to the side like her mom had taught her. All that mattered was that Robin knew she was _loved_ , and she knew that in their smiles, their gentle touches, the endless supply of paper and crayons even as supplies grew thin. “I’m with you.”

“Good.” May’s hand smoothed over her hair before she leaned in to give her a soft kiss on the forehead. “Now, you wanna tell me what Fitz is making for breakfast?”

Robin thought about it, sweeping through her memories, lined up like little drawings in her head. She saw a woman and a man in blue, an apple in his fist, she saw two metal spheres flying through the air, she saw an almond-eyed baby blinking up at her from the church steps, she saw a figure with his back to her whittling a small familiar bird, but none of them were Fitz making breakfast. Not yet. “I don’t know,” she told her. 

May bopped her on the nose. “Are you sure?”

Robin spotted the sparkle in her mom’s eyes. Maybe May didn’t mean the drawings. “…Pancakes.”

“All right, let’s go down and see,” she said, slipping out of the bed and holding out a hand to her. “You haven’t been wrong yet.”

“I haven’t?” she questioned.

“No,” May said, her lips curving upward ever so slightly as if there was something she wasn’t telling her. 

Was there? “…Because Fitz always makes pancakes,” Robin remembered after a moment. Memories of the small kitchen they shared came back to her, slowly at first and then more rapidly, Fitz and Jemma and Elena, rationed chocolate chips arranged in smiley faces and the sticky sweetness of butter-flavored corn syrup on her tongue. It was different from the drawings in her head, layered atop of one another in stacks and stacks and stacks that teetered and sometimes fell down, and she was learning to differentiate them in the rare moments the drawings weren’t all she could see, when she was _here_ rather than _there_ and knew where _here_ was, even if not _when_ it was. Robin smiled, then tugged on May’s sleeve. “It’s a good thing, you know.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re Alya’s favorite,” she replied.

“Alya, huh?” May said, looking at her.

She faltered, thinking back, but the stacks were closing in again, threatening to fall, and she couldn’t remember— “Oh no, was that a secret?”

“No, it’s not a secret,” her mom assured her, cupping Robin’s face in her hands. Robin felt that _thing_ again, the sensation that stayed with her through the drawings and the memories and the death, when everything else slipped through her fingers—the knowledge that despite everything _she was loved_. The certainty glowed warm and steady in her chest, a bastion against the unknown. “No, it just reminds me of how special you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated <3


	6. Coffee Shop AU (skimmons + fitzhunter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye just needs caffeine. A lot of caffeine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this got away from me lmao. But look guys, we're back to fluff!
> 
> Beta'd by independentalto, much love to you, Serena <3

The first time espresso-shot-girl came in was a drizzly Saturday afternoon. Jemma remembered that it had been a Saturday, because Halloween had been the night before, and Fitz had been exceedingly unexcited—in her opinion, at least—about the fact that it was a full moon Halloween, and not just a full moon but a _blue moon_ , and the first one since _1944._ Jemma had dragged him out trick-or-treating anyway despite his protestations that as university students they were too old for this, and she had patted his cheek and told him his baby face would help them out with that then.

Fitz had been less than pleased, but begrudgingly donned his monkey costume anyway—Jemma was Jane Goodall, because matching costumes weren’t just for couples—on the condition he got to hang the holiday bell above the coffee shop’s door the next day to put an end to the October holiday once and for all because obviously it was Christmastime now that the calendar had turned over to November.

(Fitz would never admit it because, _science_ , but Jemma still wasn’t entirely convinced the real reason he hated Halloween wasn’t just that he was scared of ghosts.)

The bell in question, silver and wreathed in holly to give it a bit of festive cheer, jingled above the door to the coffee shop as it opened for what felt like the hundredth time that day, bringing with it a blast of cool fall air and the scent of rain. Jemma glanced up from the pumpkin spice latte she was making, for once agreeing with Fitz in hoping it would be the last one of the season but knowing that was too much to ask for on only the first of November. She added the finishing dusting of spice through the sifter— _we can’t have clumpy spice, Jem!_ —jammed the lid over the top of it, and slid it out onto the pick-up area of the counter with a call of “Pumpkin spice latte for Hunter!”

“Thanks, love,” Hunter said, picking it up with a wink.

“Your boyfriend ordered a PSL again,” Jemma hissed at Fitz as he came back in from his break, shrugging his apron back on.

“He is the _worst_ ,” Fitz replied with vehemence, but the soft look in his eyes completely ruined the effect.

“Oi! I waited and made Jemma make it just for you!” Hunter called from across the shop.

Ignoring him, Jemma approached the register where the person who would come to be known as espresso-shot-girl was standing, head tilted upward to look at the menu. “Sorry about the wait, what can I—” Beautiful brown eyes met hers and Jemma’s brain stuttered to a stop. “Um. What—what can I get you?” she asked.

The girl smiled at her, and Jemma felt her face burning. What was wrong with her? What was—? And had she— _seen_? Her face turned red sometimes, like really red, and Fitz called her a tomato—Jemma didn’t _want_ to be a tomato; it wasn’t _her_ fault her capillary blood vessels expanded so much— “Medium iced vanilla cold brew with an extra espresso shot, please.”

Jemma blinked, all thoughts of vasodilation leaving her brain. Wait—what was wrong with _her_?

“An espresso shot?” Jemma repeated. “In…cold brew?”

“Actually, better make it two,” the girl said, handing her her card. Jemma pressed the ‘add shot’ button on the touchscreen twice, then swiped it numbly, feeling like she was quite possibly committing a coffee-related crime as she did so. “Thanks!” the girl said, one side of her smile quirked upward into a half-smirk and her eyes lingering on Jemma’s a little too long as she took the card back before heading off toward one of the empty tables. Jemma stood there for a full minute before she realized a) she actually now had to make said monstrosity, and b) she had completely forgotten to get the girl’s name.

Well, it wasn’t like that order was going to get confused with anyone else’s anyway, but she couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. She couldn’t ask now, right? That would be weird? No, she definitely would _not_ be doing that, no matter how—

“Jem?” Fitz asked. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she squeaked.

“Okay, well, there’s a line,” Fitz said, and Jemma jumped, realizing he was right. He peered at the orders screen. “And bloody hell, who ordered espresso in their cold brew—”

* * *

“She’s a heathen,” Fitz said of her later that day in their shared apartment, recounting the story of making said monstrosity as if they hadn’t both _been there_ the entire time. Hunter was over, as he always was more often than not, with his head pillowed in Fitz’s lap. “She’s a coffee heathen. It’s bad enough the bloody Yanks—” Okay, apparently continued exposure to his boyfriend was affecting Fitz’s vocabulary too. “—can’t properly appreciate a good cuppa, but to go and ruin any dignity _coffee_ has left as well—”

“Says the bloke who works at a coffee shop,” Hunter said.

Fitz scowled and mimed pushing Hunter off his lap, and Hunter mimed being evicted from Fitz’s lap, failed, and ended up rolling off the couch instead in a jumble of limbs and curse words.

* * *

The second time espresso-shot-girl came in, she was bundled in what looked to be two sweaters and a jacket, a bulky red scarf wrapped around her neck and a purple hat complete with a pom-pom jammed over her head. Her face was flushed, two bright spots on her cheeks that were about all Jemma could see of her from under all the layers. “Are you—are you okay?” Jemma found herself asking instead of the girl’s order, because as far as she knew it was a pretty balmy November day outside, unless the weather had taken a dramatic turn during her six-hour shift.

“Just a little cold,” the girl responded cheerily, punctuating the words with a muffled sneeze into her elbow before ordering a peppermint latte, two espresso shots, and extra whipped cream.

“Are you sure you don’t want some…tea?” Jemma tried. “We have lemon, and ginger…”

“Nope, I’m good!” The girl smiled brightly at her before sneezing again, a little _achoo!_ that was cuter than it had any right to be. But no. _No_. Jemma had a question to ask this time—

“What’s your name?” she blurted out. A second later, she turned as red as the candy canes Fitz had painted outside the window. “I mean—for—for the order, I mean.”

“It’s Skye,” she said, and god did this girl make Jemma’s heart stop when she smiled, all dimples with a dash of mischief. Her gaze slipped down to her chest, making Jemma’s brain short-circuit again before she remembered that’s where her name tag was pinned. “Thanks for the coffee, Jemma.”

* * *

Skye showed up at the coffee shop a third, fourth, and fifth time over the next week, much recovered from her cold despite her lack of tea, ordering three more drinks with a total of eleven extra shots of espresso combined. Despite obviously being a university student, she hit the $3 tip button—the highest one their system allowed—every time with a smile that made Jemma’s knees go a little weak and that when she relived in her mind later made her very likely to drop whatever she was holding. She didn’t think the tips made up for the cost of the spilled half-finished drinks at this point, but luckily the coffee shop owner Phil Coulson didn’t seem to mind (and his much scarier wife, Melinda, hated coffee too much to even set foot in the shop).

Feet up on the arm of the couch in their apartment and her body and hair temporarily scrubbed of the coffee shop smell, Jemma opened the email with the shift schedule for the next week. “Fitz,” she called without looking up, “can you switch shifts with me for tomorrow?”

“Why?” Fitz asked from where he was standing a few paces back from a boiling pot that Hunter was stirring noodles into. Hunter could burn pasta, an unfortunate fact that they had learned on a few regrettable occasions.

“Oh, it just fits better with my schedule,” Jemma lied, keeping her voice light and unaffected.

“So this has nothing to do with the cute brunette who only comes in on the afternoons,” her best friend surmised. Sometimes she hated their supposed psychic link.

“Espresso-shot-girl,” Hunter said, nodding wisely.

“Coffee heathen,” Fitz agreed, scrunching up his nose in such a way that Hunter was forced to kiss it off him.

“No!” she insisted anyway, as if she wasn’t remembering the way Skye would smile at her whenever she delivered up one of said monstrosities. “It has nothing to do with her. At all. _Really_.”

“Jem.” Fitz extricated himself from Hunter with a stern finger pointed toward the pasta, then walked toward her with a singularly unimpressed gaze.

“O—okay, well, yes, but—”

“You like her,” he said simply.

“I’m just concerned about her health, that’s all,” Jemma replied primly. “That much caffeine, multiple days a week…”

“So you want to…monitor it?”

She gaped at him for a second, then shut her mouth with a _snap_. “Oh, shut up, Fitz. Will you switch shifts or not?”

“‘Course,” he said. “But ask her out soon, yeah? Hunter and I have a bet, and I want to win.”

 _“Oi, Fitzy, you weren’t supposed to_ tell _her! …_ Oh, _bloody hell_ , the pasta.”

* * *

“Skye!” Jemma smiled widely, determined not to make a fool of herself this time, although the little wave her hand was doing was not an auspicious start. She had _prepared_ for this, and after all, she _excelled_ at preparation. “You’re back!”

“This place has good coffee,” Skye replied, and Jemma tried very hard not to notice the casual way she leaned in against the counter. Today she had on a purple plaid shirt with a jean jacket thrown over it, a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, and a messy ponytail with a few escaped strands resting against her collarbone. Reaching out and tucking those back into place would be weird, right? Yes. Yes, that would be weird.

Skye winked at Jemma, and she was sure she felt her heart palpitate in her chest. “And the company’s not bad either.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing. She swallowed, hard, somehow managing to find her voice again and grateful it was _not_ a squeak. “What can I add espresso into for you today?”

Skye immediately grinned. “Aww, you remembered.”

“Well, you’re…” _Hard to forget. Really pretty. Way out of my league._ “…at risk for many health issues, drinking that much caffeine all the time,” Jemma found herself saying. _What? No. No, no, no, no—_ “Caffeine-induced anxiety disorder, chronic insomnia, high blood pressure…” She trailed off, wanting to be killed on the spot—Hunter supposedly knew a few people, and how much could a contract hit on herself cost, really—but Skye was still smiling, her head tilted slightly as she waited for Jemma to finish.

“Well, maybe I just wanted you to notice me,” she said, letting the sentence linger in the air between them for a moment with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. Then she shifted, hefting the backpack up higher. “But also yeah, I have a CompSci final this afternoon, so large hot caramel macchiato with six espresso shots, please.”

“ _Skye_ ,” Jemma said, scandalized.

“Yes, for Skye,” the girl replied with a shit-eating grin. “And can I get a receipt?”

“Sure,” she said, punching it in. She slid the receipt and Skye’s card back to her. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” Skye said with another mischievous smile before heading to wait at the pickup side of the counter, and Jemma had to wait a couple seconds before starting to steam the milk to make sure she didn’t drop it entirely. She made the drink with extra care, waiting the thirty seconds it took for the espresso machine to dispense each shot into the cup, then filled out the cardboard sleeve with special attention to the ‘Other’ line. Heart pounding, she walked to the other side of the counter and set the cup down in front of Skye, who immediately slid the receipt toward her at the same time, something written on it in dark blue ink.

_(616) 702-7084_

“It’s my number,” Skye said, looking nervous for the first time Jemma had ever seen her, shifting from foot to foot as she chewed on her lower lip. “If you—want to get coffee _with me_ sometime? Or—or tea?”

“Maybe.” This time it was Jemma’s turn to smile mischievously. “I already wrote mine on the side of your cup.”

A delighted look spread over Skye’s face, staining her ears adorably pink as she turned the cup to look and then raised her gaze back to Jemma. “Wow, full name too.”

“I like to be thorough,” she replied.

“I could be an axe murderer, though.”

“If you are, then you’re a very caffeinated one.”

“Well, axe murderering’s a lot of work,” Skye said, giving her another wink. “Tomorrow, eleven p.m., old graveyard on Chaucery, bring-your-own-axe?”

“Tomorrow, eleven _a_.m.,” she countered. “And that crepe place on 8th.”

“Jemma Simmons,” Skye said, “it’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated <3


	7. Stargazing (fitzsimmons fam + daisy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a quiet night post-finale, the FitzSimmons family and Daisy go stargazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the season 7 finale, obviously. Apologies for any mistakes that may be in this one, writing and posting this from the car so editing is difficult ;)

Blankets were bundled in Jemma’s arms, Alya in Fitz’s. Daisy bobbed along behind them, enjoying the slight burn in her legs as they trekked up the spiral staircase to the top of the lighthouse overlooking the cliffs and the sea that the Lighthouse bunker below had been named for. The sky opened up above them as they reached the top, glittering with tiny specks of light, and Daisy breathed in deep of the cold night air. She crossed her arms, suddenly glad that Jemma had taken one look at her on the way out and decided to mother her into grabbing a jacket. Alya herself was ensconced in at least three sweaters, arms slung tight around Fitz’s neck.

Right, because Jemma was a _mother_ now, and Fitz a _father_. They’d told the whole team two days ago, and yet still Daisy wondered when it would really sink in, that her two oldest friends were parents. They’d grown up together, hadn’t they? Movie nights and popcorn and _bad girl shenanigans_ on the Bus. She’d seen them grow from awkward, adorable scientists to the seasoned, capable ones they were now, and they had watched her transform from the disillusioned hacker who had nothing to the agent who had _everything_ , and something to believe in besides. They had done that together, the three of them, and yet what Daisy remembered most were the games of Scrabble and the pranks in the Playground corridors and passing out in a jumble on the couch in matching drunk-purchased snuggies trying to marathon _The Lord of the Rings_.

“Grab a side?” Jemma asked, and Daisy did so, stretching the blanket out between them before laying it flat on the deck. Fitz sat down first, Alya quiet in his arms unlike most kids Daisy had seen at that age who would have been kicking their legs to be put down already. But she was a quiet child, from what Daisy had gleaned from the first two days of interaction, holding tight to one of their hands at all times and gazing at the rest of their faces like she couldn’t quite believe they were real.

_“She’ll adjust with time,” Jemma had said quietly as they both stood watching Alya help Fitz flip pancakes on the griddle._

_“You and Fitz and Enoch and six hundred square feet of Zephyr were all she’d ever known for the first four years of her life,” Daisy replied. “I understand.”_

_“And space,” she said, smiling. “So much of it out there, for how little we had on the ship. But you’ll see—soon she’ll be a little chatterbox again, telling you about anything and everything she can think of.”_

_“Bet that’s a lot,” Daisy replied, “with your genes.”_

_Jemma touched her shoulder. “You should come with us tonight. I want her to know you, Dais.”_

She settled down on one side of Fitz, Jemma next to her, throwing the second blanket over the three of them. “Mama!” Alya said immediately, reaching her little arms out toward her. “Mama’s turn.”

“All right, sweet girl, come here,” Jemma said, reaching across Daisy to, lift her from Fitz’s arms. Alya happily settled down in her lap, face tilted upward. 

“We were trying to teach her sharing,” Fitz told Daisy out of the corner of his mouth with false grump. “Now _I_ have to share.”

“That’s Polaris,” Alya said, pointing upward. “The North Star.”

Daisy followed her gaze, but her little finger could have been pointing anywhere in the sea of stars above them. She felt Fitz’s elbow in her side. “Nice,” she complimented her, not having needed the elbow. “Can you find the Big Dipper?”

“That’s _easy_ , Daisy,” Alya informed her with a giggle. “Mama and I studied the star charts ev’ry night. It’s right there.”

“We spent a lot of time looking out at the stars,” Fitz said quietly. “Jemma wanted her to still recognize them once we got back to earth.”

“Why don’t you show Daisy where we were living?” Jemma suggested, bouncing her a little.

“Alya!” the girl said excitedly, pointing at a different section of the sky this time. “Like me! It’s Mama’s favorite star and it’s part of Theta Serpents and it’s one-point-five zillion majillion kil’meters away.”

“Zillion majillion, huh?” Daisy asked with a smile even as Fitz chuckled beside her.

Alya frowned adorably, puckered lips and her little blonde eyebrows meeting in the middle of her forehead. “Maybe a _little_ less.” She looked back upward, her fingers tangling in a loose lock of her mother’s hair. “It’s so big, Mama.”

“Yeah?” Jemma asked. Daisy thought Alya was right; the sky opened up like a huge dome before them, especially from up so high. On a cloudless night, the stars surrounded them so completely that it was almost the same as floating among them as she supposed they used to, even more than what one could see through the Zephyr’s windshield. “What do you think, love? Is it the same?”

“Feels like home,” Alya said after a moment.

Jemma cuddled her close. “Soon, the rest’ll feel like home too.”

“You’re back now, and we have Auntie Daisy and Aunt Melinda and Uncle Phil and Uncle Mack and Aunt Elena,” Alya chirped, and Daisy felt a warm glow kindle in her stomach as she listed them all with warm familiarity. Maybe they hadn’t missed out on four years of Alya’s life after all. Maybe they’d been a part of it already, without even realizing it, with so much more to come—birthdays and recitals and science fairs and everything in between. “It already is.” Alya considered Daisy for a few moments, bright blue eyes on hers with the stars reflected in them, and she held her gaze, wondering what was going on in the mind of this tiny human. Alya tapped her mother’s shoulder. “Daisy’s turn now, Mama.”

Jemma’s eyes found Daisy’s, misty with a little bit of I told you so within their brown depths, and then Alya was wriggling into her lap instead, little socked feet jabbing into her thighs until the girl snuggled against her. Evidently similar affected, Fitz made a gruff, throat-clearing sound beside her.

“Don’t worry, Da, you’re next,” Alya assured him.

“No, monkey, I’m…I’m just happy.”

“Oh.” Alya considered that. “I’m happy too. Mama?”

“Yes, sweet girl,” Jemma said.

“Daisy?”

“Yeah, Alya,” Daisy said, hugging her close. “Me too.” _More than I ever thought I’d be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated <3


	8. Captain America Convention (philinda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May and Coulson get ready for a Captain America Convention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Actual fluff_ for once, coming right up ;)

“This is ridiculous.”

“Mel—”

“I’m serious.”

“But we already bought tickets.”

“No, _you_ bought tickets. I was brought into a hostage situation. Through guilt-tripping and Daisy’s damned puppy dog eyes.”

“What, my puppy dog eyes aren’t good enough for you?” He looked at her, drawing his eyebrows together cutely with a slight pursing of his lips. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined by the custom-made, hand-stitched, period-accurate Captain America uniform he was wearing, and to May, he just looked like a big dork.

She crossed her arms. “Evidently not.”

“Try bribery!” called a muffled voice from somewhere outside the door, and May rolled her eyes.

“I promise I’ll never ask you for anything again,” Phil said, all big earnest blue eyes. May was not fooled.

“You said that last time.”

“I did?”

“2014. Howling Commandos Descendants 24th Annual Reunion Brunch.”

“But that was for _charity_ —”

She gave him a singularly unimpressed look. “There were _reenactments_.”

“Okay, okay.” He sighed, then held up a finger. “I will let you _lightly injure_ one subordinate who needs to be taken down a peg on the training mat.”

May narrowed her eyes. “Two subordinates. And I pick which ones.”

“Tomlinson?”

“Tomlinson.”

“Fine.” He shook his head. “We never had this conversation, and it certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Tomlinson almost let Daisy get shot last mission.”

“Exactly. I’ll be happy to take him down a leg.”

“No— _peg_ , Mel. Take him down a _peg_.”

She gave a noncommittal hum. “So if we could revisit _light injuries_ —”

Phil sighed. “We never had this conversation.”

May smirked, but the expression quickly died as he presented her with a bundle of blue cloth, a bright red hat sitting on top of it. Oh, right—the other part of the bargain. She looked him up and down in his Captain America costume again, then resigned herself to it.

 _Her_ big dork.

“This is still ridiculous,” May told him as she took the bundle. She set it on the bed before unbuttoning her pants, shoving them down to her ankles and fishing the blue pencil skirt out of the pile. “You’ve _met him_ , Phil. What would Steve say if you knew you were attending a Captain America Convention? Your _fifth_ Captain America Convention?”

“Um, that’s ‘Captain Rogers’ to you, and he’d probably say ‘Agent Coulson, you’re alive!’ for starters,” he replied. “…Please don’t tell Cap.”

“Mm,” May hummed noncommittally, now buttoning on a blue suit jacket. She sighed, then turned to Phil, who was looking at her _way_ too eagerly for this.

“You’re missing that hat!” he told her, bouncing up and down a little.

May sighed, jamming the glaring red monstrosity onto her head. “You are more excited about me in this than me when I was half-dressed, aren’t you?”

His mouth clamped shut, eyes darting to the side. “No.”

“You still haven’t learned to lie, Phil.” She ran her hands over the front of the jacket, the material thick and weighty and fitting just a little _too_ well. Women’s clothes weren’t designed to fit this perfectly; it was a curse of the patriarchy, and there was a reason May wore the same leather vested S.H.I.E.L.D. jacket ensemble almost every day on base. “Did you have this tailor-made?” How did he get her _size_? The level of effort and nerd in this man—

“No?”

“Okay, guys, PLEASE can I come in yet?” Daisy interrupted from outside the door. “Unless you’re, like, making out or something because Coulson thinks May’s hot in Agent Carter cosplay—”

Shooting an amused look at May, Phil walked to the door, yanking it open. For her part, May vaguely debated the merits of hiding in the closet. Pros, it was was walk-in and the large bar across the top that would make flipping herself up and wedging herself at the top of it even easier than normal, cons, this stupid pencil skirt and the lack of leg mobility. Her respect for Peggy Carter and her accomplishments had never been higher if the founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. had been forced to wear _this_.

“Oh, good, you’re done!” Daisy said brightly, walking inside like she owned the place. Or at least, had Phil wrapped around her little hacker finger, which, of course she did.

“Excuse you, I think Melinda’s hot all the time,” Phil informed her.

“Ew! Coulson! Gross!” Daisy made a face, feigning gagging. “I did not need to _know_ that.” She seemed to recover quickly though, reviving basically the instant she spotted May in her 1940s getup. “Oh my god. Oh my GOD—” Her phone was already out, snapping pictures before May could even drum up a murder stare to dissuade her.

God, Phil was lucky she loved him.

“This is _amazing_ ,” Daisy chortled, turning to Coulson. “I can’t believe you actually got her into that one. Like, SSR!Peggy! I thought for sure it would be Howling Commando!Peggy, at least that one’s a leather jacket.”

Coulson immediately looked like a deer in the headlights.

“Phil,” May said lowly, pouring all her desire of murdering Tomlinson as well as him into the tone of her voice. “Are you telling me I could have gone to this Captain America Convention with you _in a leather jacket_ , and instead you have me in a _pencil skirt_?”

“It’s iconic?” he squeaked. “And…you have nice legs?”

Daisy looked between them, snapping a few more pictures. “You are so dead, AC. And Cap-Peggy Carter fight! This is so going on Instagram.” May turned her glare onto her, and Daisy quailed. “The S.H.I.E.L.D. email blast?” She dialed the murder stare up to eleven. “Okay, fine, they’ll stay on my phone never to be seen again.”

“Better,” May said. She turned back to Coulson. “Either you find me that leather jacket outfit right now, or I _will_ have my revenge.”

“Mel…the convention opens in thirty minutes…and we need to be _in line_ …”

“ _Revenge_ , Phil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual footage of Melinda May's revenge:
> 
> 😉 Any and all feedback appreciated <3


	9. Baking Cookies (scis & spies)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobbi, Hunter, Fitz, and Simmons have six dozen cookies to bake before Mack and Elena's party. And it's _definitely_ not a competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kat comes bearing cookies! ( _Yes_ , I’m aware this was for November’s fluff bingo. _Yes_ , I’m aware this fic involves baking Christmas cookies. _Yes_ , I’m aware that it is now January. Have you _met_ me?)

“Fitz…”

“Sorry, love, it’s not exactly festive…”

“It _is_ ,” Fitz said obstinately, blue eyes flicking between the three of them one by one. “I added a Santa hat.” He held up the metal cookie cutter for all of them to see—sure enough, the bent piece of scrap metal he’d been working at with pliers for the last hour was fastened to the top of it in the shape of a lopsided Santa hat, complete with droopy white puffball on top. “Monkeys in Santa hats are _festive_.”

The timer went off on the microwave, and Bobbi dodged around him to throw on a mitt and pull open the door to the oven, grabbing the metal sheet and placing it on top of the stove. The buttery scent of freshly baked sugar cookies wafted through the air. “Next batch?” she asked, looking back at them.

“Already done, Bob,” Hunter held up his hands.

“Don’t rush me,” Fitz grumbled, meticulously adding another Santa-hatted monkey to the empty sheet in front of him.

“Haven’t started,” Jemma murmured from where she was weighing exact measurements of flour on a food scale at the far end of the counter and contemplating the ball of dough in front of her with an adorable expression of utter concentration.

Bobbi sighed, closing the oven again and swiftly filling another sheet with cut-outs of candy canes, Christmas trees, stars, and—“Who has the reindeer cutter?” she asked.

Something metallic and sharp came flying at her head courtesy of Hunter, and she snatched it deftly out of the air. “I love you too,” she deadpanned, then looked down at it. “Wait, no, not this one, the _good_ reindeer cutter—”

“Oi, that thing makes perfectly fine deer!”

“The legs are too thin,” Bobbi said.

“Excuse me, did you just skinny-shame my deer?”

“They always break off!”

“It _is_ a structural integrity issue,” Jemma said, cutting into the bickering.

“Thank you,” Bobbi said, pulling her in for a quick kiss.

“Bribery,” Hunter scoffed.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Well, come to my side, and I’d be willing to bribe you too…”

Fitz glanced up, ignoring Bobbi and Hunter’s heated stares—half challenge and half eye-fucking, though Bobbi knew if it turned to _actual_ fucking, he’d be first to join in—to laser-focus on Jemma. “Structural integrity?” Before Bobbi quite knew what had happened, the deer cookie cutter was in his hands, turning over as he examined it. “I could probably fix that…”

Sending Bobbi one last burning mock-glare, Hunter broke eye contact to snatch it away from him, cradling it protectively. “Don’t ruin _art_ , Fitz.”

“Legless deer,” Bobbi said, quirking her eyebrow at Jemma. “ _Art_.”She cut a last few candy canes out of the dough to fill up her sheet instead, then hurried to slide it into the oven. She glanced at the clock, then back at her partners. “All right, we should pick up the pace, Mack and Elena’s party is at six, and we’re supposed to be bringing _at least_ six dozen of these, frosted…”

Fitz just passed her a tray of raw monkey-shaped cookies—er, _biscuits_ , as Bobbi was currently (constantly) outnumbered by Brits and Scot at the moment (always). “As a fellow biochemist, you should know you can’t rush _science_ ,” Jemma replied primly.

“No problem over here,” Hunter said with a lazy grin, the type that after all these years made Bobbi very, very nervous.

“You do know that it’s not a competition, right? And that if it was, it’s definitely not one based on speed? They have to actually be…” She made a face. “…edible.”

“They are edible!” he defended. “And if you didn’t want it to be a competition, Bob, you shouldn’t have let us each do our own batches.”

“Baking is basically just chemistry,” Jemma said. She turned to Hunter, an innocent smile on her face. “What did you get in Chem class, Hunter?”

“Oh, sod off,” he grumbled, and she stood up on her tiptoes to kiss the pout off his face.

“Baking’s about being adventurous. Recipes can always be improved, just like tech, right, Fitz?”

“Right, Jem.”

She grinned mischievously, burying her hands back in a bowl in a dough and resuming kneading it. “You’re just not adventurous enough.”

“I learned what rocky mountain oysters are for you, and if that’s not true love I don’t know what is,” Hunter sighed. At the very mention of the food from Jemma’s birthday trip the year before— _“it’s all part of the experience, trying exotic food!”_ —Fitz blanched, shaking his head.

“You liked it before Bobbi told you what it was,” Jemma said, spying his nauseated expression.

“I do _not_ need to be reminded of that while baking biscuits…”

The timer beeped again, and Bobbi slid another tray of cookies out of the oven, swapping it for yet another of Fitz’s monkeys. She checked the time. “Two hours, everyone. Sorry, Jemma, we might not get to frosting yours today and bring them to Daisy and Lincoln’s thing tomorrow instead—”

“Done!” Hunter announced proudly, cutting her off.

“What do you mean ‘done’?” Fitz asked, frowning.

Hunter turned around from his station on the other side of the kitchen from Bobbi, brandishing a completed tray of frosted cookies, complete with sprinkles. “Read it and weep, mate.”

“If I’m weeping, it will be for an entirely different reason…”

“Bobbi, you better come look at this…” Jemma said cautiously.

“What the _bloody_ hell.”

Washing her hands quickly at the sink, Bobbi walked over with a feeling of excited dread tingling in her stomach. Upon closer inspection, what had looked like frosting and sprinkles from across the room… Oh, Fitz was right, _what the bloody hell_ …

Her eyes tried to make sense of the mess she was seeing, lumpy red, green, and white spread around with all the finesse of a cat dragging its tail through paint. She identified the problem quickly—Hunter had evidently tried to frost his while the cookies were still too hot, resulting in icing that was gooey and melted and oozing everywhere—but that understanding did nothing to prevent the incredulous, horrified laughter bubbling up in her throat.

Fitz picked one up, holding it gingerly between two fingers. Some of the frosting dripped off its antlers, and as they watched, one of the legs, overburdened by frosting, broke off and fell back onto the tray.

“Oi! You’re injuring my deer!”

“Why is its head _red_ ,” Fitz demanded. “It looks…murdered.”

“Bloodily,” Bobbi agreed, trying and failing to keep her voice studiously neutral.

“It’s not _RED_ , it’s just his NOSE, because he’s _RUDOLPH_ , see?” Hunter said, taking the cookie from Fitz and cradling it with the care of someone holding a newborn baby. There was a pause in which Jemma, Fitz, and Bobbi all looked at each other, lips twitching.

“Well, that is _one_ kind of adventurous,” Jemma offered finally, and the fond smile she gave Hunter as she said it made Bobbi’s toes curl in her Baby Yoda socks. “Here, I think we can do a little bit of surgery to fix that deer right up…it’ll be just like grafting a tree…”

“It wasn’t a competition but Hunter still loses,” Fitz said, sighing and pulling the man in question for a quick, chaste kiss. “…I’ll whip up a thicker frosting, maybe make a splint we can use while it sets…” He puttered off to his own workstation, mental calculations already running behind the eyes.

“Bob? Gonna help?” Hunter asked, and with a jolt she realized she was still standing there with what was probably a dopey smile on her face, though she would murder anyone who called it that.

“You’re all idiots but I love you anyways,” Bobbi said in reply, knowing the words could never properly convey the warm feeling deep in her chest. “Now come on, one deer surgery and then we really do need to make some, ah, presentable ones for the party.” She crossed to the pantry to grab some more powdered sugar for the frosting, bumping Hunter’s hip with her own as she passed him. “You did that on purpose so you could just eat them, didn’t you?”

Hunter winked, a smudge of frosting visible at the corner of his lips. “Well, they _are_ edible, as I believe was the criteria.”

“ _Lancelot Amadeus Ravenclaw Hunter…!_ ”

“You utter _wanker_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated!
> 
> Next up is plat!MayRobinPolly, which is already written but I'll probably wait a bit to post until I have the final installment finished as well. Until then <3


	10. Forehead Kisses (mayrobinpolly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin's life, surrounded by the people she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not finished with the next one yet, but have this one anyway since I feel bad I've been posting so much disco fic lmao 🙃
> 
> I have not forgotten you (much), AoS friends...

Nearly her entire life, Robin Hinton had known confusion, and pain, and loss.

But for her _entire_ life, Robin had known love.

She had known it in the hospital, when she was but a tiny thing, flailing limbs swaddled in a pink hospital blanket. She was pink herself, pink and new and utterly mad about it. The nurse placed her in her exhausted mother’s arms, and Polly’s heart was full of that love. Her father Charles had tears in his eyes, tears for his wife and baby daughter, tears of _I’m-so-proud-of-you_ and _look-at-her_ and _she’s-beautiful_. He kissed her forehead and let her tiny fingers curl around the tip of one of his, and that was love.

She had known it in the diaper changes and the feedings, had known it in the games of peek-a-boo, had known it in the board books and the silly songs that lulled her to sleep.

She had known it the first day her life changed forever, too. Her life had many of those, piled on top of each other like the ABC blocks she liked to stack or the Jenga tower her parents imagined playing with her when she was older, teetering ever closer to falling down. But this one was the first—the shriek of her mother when the husk took him over, the crying when he came out of it again, the visions of death that came with the first touch of his lips to her forehead as he laid her in her crib that night.

She had known love in the way he didn’t touch her after that, hug her or kiss her goodnight or change her diaper or anything, _anything_ that could put those images in her head again. He protected her, her mother protected her, and when it happened anyway, over and over again with the faintest accidental brush of skin, he left to protect her too.

She had known it as her mother rocked her and cried, the two of them alone in the world. She had known it as a man named Phil Coulson informed them he had died, Polly holding her tight. She had known it when a young woman named Daisy Johnson delivered her a little carved wooden figure, named for her and painted with a splash of red along the bottom.

She had known love when she came out of her own husk, her mother’s hands gentle on her face, hesitant at first, and then her thumbs stroking her cheeks and pressing kiss after kiss to her forehead and hugging her tight in relief that she still could. That, no matter what happened, they could still have each other.

She had known love even when things became scattered, blurry, out of order.

A plate of steaming eggs, and “Can you tell Fitz? He’d really like to know why he's not with them.”

A different mother, passing her stolen pellets out of sight of the Blues.

A bald man, quiet and watching and always handing her a fresh sheet and a crayon.

An arm around her shoulders as they left the restaurant, smelling of red ink and copy paper and jasmine.

A blonde and a Brit, telling her stories before Polly tucked her in at night.

A trembling hand, stroking soft across her face. “We’re special. We never have to say goodbye.”

A strong pair of arms cradling her, her body old and frail.

A hug, a tickling at the back of her brain. “Something’s different…”

Robin had known love. She had known it in forehead kisses and hands dwarfing hers, in a home-cooked meals and secreted rations, in blankets tucked around her and a little wooden bird perched next to her no matter where she ended up.

She had known it in Charles.

She had known it in Polly.

She had known it in May.

She had known it in EnochandDaisyandBobbiandHunter, the one constant in a world that was ever-changing, in a mind that couldn’t always tell _up_ from _down_ or _now_ from _then_.

Throughout everything, Robin had been loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback appreciated <3


End file.
